


Sick Irony

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Batdad, Bruce "What is Awkwardness" Wayne, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Crack, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Humor, Sickfic, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim is awkward and trying his best, Tim stop laughing why are you laughing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18815140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Just when Tim thought he knew everything there was to know about Batman, this happened.





	Sick Irony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyKittyLuvsU](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyKittyLuvsU/gifts).



Tim had no idea.

Absolutely, unequivocally, desert-dry of clues kind of no idea.

Before about five minutes ago, Tim at least had a vague idea, an understanding of what being Robin would be like. Lady Shiva beat him into the ground near every day of his training abroad. Dick did the same before her and even Alfred before that. (Cross that. Especially Alfred.) So, Tim had a faint understanding that being Robin would be a grueling undertaking. Long nights? Check. Sore muscles? Double check. But  _this_? This is something Tim did not sign up for.

That only highlights the fact that Dick should have told him. The man must've gone through this at least once. He has to have known. Looking back now, he totally did: The minute Dick found out Bruce had a head cold, he'd given this sort of self-incriminating snort, a bit bug-eyed and thrilled the way people get when they hear the words "cotton candy" or "all you can eat buffet." Tim didn't even know Dick's nasal passages had the capacity to make that kind of sound, but Tim's a detective. In hindsight, it's obvious Dick knew about this.

_And he didn't tell me._

No, Dick threw him to the metaphorical wolves—That's what he did. Left him completely blindsided like an unexpecting gazelle being mauled by a lion. The two of them will be having words later. Tim's already rehearsing what he's going to say to his older brother, because if the teen thinks about anything else, he's going to have a meltdown.

Usually, Bruce's presence next to him would provide comfort, a sense of stability in the unstable. Right now, though, Bruce is number one on the list of things Tim feels he understands the least. He can't even look at the Batman right now for risk of losing his composure.

It doesn't mean Bruce has vanished, though. The man's still here, serious as ever. Tim can catch the way his shoulders are hunched in his peripherals, that crouch that somehow makes him even more massive when compared with the gargoyles around them. The Bat signal is glowing in the clouds on the horizon, too, but they both know Dick ( _the traitor_ ) can answer Gordon. They've got bigger fish to fry at the moment. That point is emphasized by the stern way Bruce is surveying the warehouse on the other side of the street. There's supposed to be a deal going on in an hour there. They just have to wait.

"No sign of movement," Bruce grunts, and the sheer normality of his voice almost sets Tim off. The teen has to curl his lips inward to keep a straight face, because he can't. Legitimately, in all senses of the phrase, cannot handle this right now.

The juxtaposition is just too much.

The teen hurriedly shoves another spoonful of milkshake in his mouth. It's for the sole purpose of making it less obvious he's about to break into a laughing fit. If he can't hold it in, he can just bark, "Brain freeze!" and pass off a snicker as a hiss of pain. Tim might have to: His shoulders are already shaking from stifled laughter, and his diaphragm feels like it's slowly being lit aflame. Tim has a vain hope that the ice cream will keep his lungs from spontaneously combusting.

Bruce sends him a fleeting glance, half skeptical, half confused, before scooping another layer off of his own shake. The man muttered something about his throat feeling sore when Tim pressed him about it earlier, and they made an agreement that Tim wouldn't tell Alfred how ill he actually is if Bruce ate something. Ice cream was one of the few things the man didn't cringe at the thought of swallowing, and ultimately, that decision led them here at three in the morning with good ol' Baskin-Robbins and a package of Oreos.

Tim's still panicking slightly about keeping his act together and crunches another cookie over the ice cream. He's already added far too many, but he needs the distraction.

Bruce shoots him another look as if to say, "Take it easy on the sugar," and Tim wonders. He wonders if Bruce even knows why Tim can't look him in the eye. Has Bruce really been so sheltered, been so completely, utterly ignorant his whole life of the irony? Did Alfred never tell him? Dick? Jason?

The responsibility can't fall to Tim. It can't.

But he almost owes it to Bruce in a way. They're partners—friends, even. The man's in his thirties, so he has to know, right? Thirty years of life. That's a lot of head colds. Allergies too.

Tim's tabulating the numbers when he sees Bruce's shoulders hike again and _oh no_. The teen can hear the inhale, long and drawn out like a melodrama or a death sentence. All tension in the world gathers in that apocalyptic way the world must've felt before the dinosaurs when caput. Tim can feel his own eyes widen, because he's not prepared. He's trying to anticipate when the sneeze will happen, because yes, that will help, but it's like trying to predict a toaster going off. The second Tim thinks it's safe, that maybe Bruce got it back under control, is the second the Batman's head jolts forward and a noise follows.

In the end, the buildup is tragic, isn't worth it in the slightest, but is so, so beautiful because of what it yields.

The sound that comes out is small—a cotton ball hitting the floor kind of quiet—but high-pitched in a way that would make a violinist jealous. It's only a second before Bruce sniffles and rights himself with the dignity of someone who inspires fear in criminals on a nightly basis. The sheer difference between the size of the man and the size of the sneeze is what almost does Tim in. But he's a strong kid, tough as nails. The kind of hardcore where you could dump him in the Arctic and he'd ask for flip flops and a smoothie, could swim to the bottom of the Mariana without scuba gear, gets up on the first ring of his morning alarm. Yeah, Tim's tough. But no amount of training could have possibly prepared Tim for the very existence of Bruce Wayne's sneeze.

That's not what finishes him off, though.

What gets Tim is the deep-throated "excuse me" that follows, totally serious and unaware, and compared to what came before, Tim just—

—cracks.

His shoulders throw forward so fast it's a surprise they don't simultaneously dislocate, and the only saving grace is the fact that Tim doesn't have any chocolate chip cookie dough in his mouth, because he's pretty sure he'd be choking right now otherwise. Bruce's confusion heightens to concern, but he doesn't help matters. He asks something about Joker gas and if Tim wasn't affected, is already scanning the area for someone who could launch a loaded dart or toss a grenade. The seriousness only makes Tim lose the ability to talk because he's laughing too hard for any sound to come out. He mouths a desperate, "No, B," and shakes his head, but that only serves to make Bruce more confused. It's such a serious expression that Tim has to look away for fear of breaking into tears. He has to tell him, but he can't.

How does he even go about explaining it? How does he explain that Bruce with a cold is the single most hilarious irony Tim's ever bore witness to? Like a small child possesses the man only when he needs to sneeze or like—

"Batman," Tim wheezes with a stair-stutter to his voice as if he's driving down a road with potholes. It makes Bruce lean forward in earnest worry. He looks like he's on the verge of dragging Tim back to the cave to check him for nitrous oxide, so Tim has to tell him, has to let him know that—

"B," Tim tries again, and thankfully, he manages to get the words out before completely dissolving into laughter. "You sneeze like a kitten."


End file.
